


Skeptical

by helens78



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: F/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-06-09
Updated: 2004-06-09
Packaged: 2017-10-05 11:41:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/pseuds/helens78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miranda knows exactly what she wants, and she plays just as hard as the boys do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skeptical

_Hellcat. Spitfire._ Miranda used to get words like that when she was fifteen, sixteen, and she hated it. But it got her what she wanted. The sort of reputation she needed. And when she was eighteen and legal, offers came in from people that made her blink. Boys. Girls. Anyone she wanted, any _way_ she wanted, and it was fun and rough and she learned how to cover the bruises when she got them.

It's been like that for years now. She's delicate, her frame anyway, and she doesn't look like she could take a hell of a lot if you're only _looking_. But then she starts to move and she starts to smile or talk, and it's quite, quite obvious that this particular woman knows precisely what she wants and she's not fooling around when she says she wants it _that hard_ or _harder_.

The first time she meets Karl her eyes zero in on him in a way he's not familiar with from women. He's definitely gotten offers, gotten looks, and on this set he's gotten looks from half the men as well. It's been a fucking gold mine of boys and girls who want to play, but the trouble is that Karl's afraid he's going to break someone in half, and that'd be awkward. He _does_ have to work with these people, after all.

"Come out with us," Miranda offers, "I'll buy you a drink."

It's supposed to go the other way around, isn't it? Offer her a drink, a lift, whatever it is she wants, and then see if he can get into her pants or if the suggestion alone will get him slapped.

"Sure," Karl finds himself saying. "Sounds good."

* * *

Karl thinks Miranda could drink him under the table if she put her mind to it. Luckily, it's not getting to be that sort of contest. It's less a battle than a survey. A matter of checking each other out and seeing if interests line up, which isn't easy when you're dancing around a topic.

He has a good hunch. A good feeling. And the feeling gets better when the dance ends and the point-blank questions start.

"Do you fuck girls?"

"Yes."

"Hard enough to bruise?"

"...I _haven't_."

"But you would?"

"I would..."

"Don't look so skeptical." Cheerful grin and snarky little laugh. "Up against a wall?"

Oh, that laugh. "Alley or loo?"

"You think I wouldn't." Not a question. "Come on, Urban. _Up._"

Karl tilts his head to the side and lets Miranda lead him to the loo. The boys' loo, which at this point doesn't surprise him at all. It's not empty and she doesn't flinch, which just makes him crack a grin from ear to ear. "Which wall do you want?" he asks.

"Smartarse." Miranda's in jeans, a button-down shirt that looks like it might have been stolen from someone -- it's too big on her -- and black shoes she kicks out of before dropping her jeans to the floor. Christ. She's not afraid of anything, Karl realizes, and his jeans are tight already. Up 'til now it's been mostly _I-dare-you_ playground behavior, and now he's starting to realize just what he's got himself into. He's in a loo with a very attractive woman, one who's dared him into fucking her against the wall, and she's stripped out of her jeans and is looking at him with one eyebrow raised, like he isn't going to take her up on it after all.

So he does what instinct tells him: he grabs her by the arms and shoves her backwards into the wall. It knocks the breath out of her for a second, and knocks the back of her head against plaster, but she's arching up and forward, teeth bared, and only a quick jerk backward keeps his neck from falling under those teeth of hers. And he's starting to think maybe she'd draw blood if he let her bite him, so he's glad he didn't let her in _that_ soon. Blood's something you share with someone after a few rough fucks, after the bruises aren't enough anymore, and he slides his hands to her wrists, pins them up above her head while he thinks about that.

"You like bruises?" he asks.

"I like rough," Miranda answers. "Try not to mark me anywhere that'll show."

"Maybe I'm not that careful," Karl says. He slides her wrists under one of his and pins her down easily, lets her tug at his grip to see that not only is he not going anywhere, he's not in any danger of it whatsoever. He could bench-press three of her. He's not concerned.

And she's not fighting anymore. Not precisely. She flicks her tongue out over her lower lip, then trails the tip of it over her teeth -- her _teeth_, God -- and cocks her eyebrow at him. "Maybe you're not," she says. "You going to fuck me anytime soon, or just talk me to death?"

Karl chuckles. He digs his free hand into his pocket, gets a condom out and slips the edge of it between her teeth. "Hang on to that, will you? Good girl." And he's smirking by the time she rolls her eyes and bites down hard on the foil. But despite the rolled eyes, the condom doesn't go anywhere as he lets his jeans down, draws his cock out and gives it several long, fast strokes.

He takes the condom back, and her teeth hang on for a minute. He grins. "Or we can do without," he says, and it's a threat.

She lets go, almost spitting the condom at him. "I'm touched, ever so touched by your concern, mate. _Christ_, stop wasting my time. _Fuck me._"

And Karl can't roll the condom on fast enough. Not even close. He gets the packet open, rolls the latex on, and he leans down, lets her wrists go so he can tug first one leg, then the other, up around his waist, pinning her to the wall with his weight. It's Miranda who shimmies down just enough to feel his cock at her entrance, and she squirms and lets her breath crest out between her lips as she feels him. Just barely. Just _there_, and he can almost feel the clench of her muscles as she tries to come down further. He leans harder against her, buries his face in the side of her neck.

"Greedy," he breathes, "little _slut_," and then he's pushing up, hands tight on her hips and dragging her down, sheathing himself inside her. Her head snaps back, slamming into the wall again, and both her hands are on his shoulders, fingernails digging in hard, biting even through light layers of denim and cotton. "Do you always get what you want?" he asks. _Oh, God._ He needs a minute to keep his balance. It's been a while since he's been with a girl, and it's been a much longer while since he's fucked _anyone_ up against a wall. If there's anyone in here watching, he doesn't give a damn. He doubts she does, either, and the way her eyes darken and sharpen when he pulls his head back to look at her confirms that. Her teeth are bared, and she's only got eyes for him.

_Good._ He thrusts in again, harder this time, knocking her into the wall and watching while she bites her lower lip and keeps herself from screaming. Getting fucked's one thing; screaming her head off in a public loo's something else. And Karl agrees with that, somewhere in the back of his mind; doesn't want anyone coming in wondering what the hell Eomer Eorlingas is doing with his sister. Or, more likely from an outsider's perspective, what he's doing _to_ his sister, because a woman screaming the way he wants to hear her scream isn't -- by custom and stereotype -- looking to be left alone with the man drawing those sounds out of her. But he thinks she'd take off anyone's head if they tried to pull him off her. He thinks they'd be in a hell of a lot more danger from her than him.

So he plants his feet, gets his balance right and fucks in hard. Lets her have everything he's got, doesn't hold back, doesn't pretend he gives a damn whether she's getting off or not. It's just fast, simple, inelegant, rough _fucking_, none of the niceties that ought to go along with taking a new lover to bed. Fuck, there's no _bed_, let alone anything else.

And in the end, Miranda can't keep quiet. She ends up letting out soft little screams, buried against Karl's neck, one after another in time with the rhythm of his thrusts. And she _does_ bite. Bites hard, too, harder than he expected. He jerks his neck to the side and frees one hand up to fist in her hair.

"Don't fucking draw blood," he pants.

"So _stop_ me," she says at him, and says it laughing.

_Stop me._ Karl tightens his grip in her hair 'til she cries out from that, and he shoves in hard, one thrust after another after -- _oh God, she's so fucking wet_, and he can feel it against the fronts of his thighs -- and that thought, the knowledge that she's getting off on this, getting off on being pinned and hurt and _fucked hard_, it's all he needs to go over, growling and snarling and halfway to screaming before he puts his mouth down on her shoulder and bites the sound off there.

He holds still afterwards, catching his breath. When his breath's caught, he thinks he can move. And when he can move, he unwinds his fingers, and helps her get her legs underneath her.

She tilts her head back, eyes closed, and stretches her hands up above her head when she's on the ground again. Twists her fingers into each other and lets out a long, pleased breath.

"Are you all right?" Karl asks, and almost bites his own tongue off for asking it. At least he manages to stop before asking the ubiquitous _did I hurt you?_ that seems to follow women and rough sex.

Miranda's eyes come open, and she shakes her head, almost laughing. "I'm _fine_," she says, "but I could go another five or six rounds." She glances down Karl's body as he gets the condom off, knots it and tosses it away. "Suppose that's not in the cards tonight, though. You need to start getting some more sleep, Urban." She bends over, letting the hair fall over her face to hide the wince as she gets her jeans up and manages to slide them on.

"Are you always this pushy?" Karl asks, licking at his lips. He can still taste her. Wonders what she'd taste like after the supposed _five or six more rounds_ she thinks she could manage.

"Not always," Miranda grins, slipping into her shoes, wrapping an arm around Karl's waist and squeezing, "but often. Now you've got a few options. You can head out with that look on your face that says _I've just had a dozen canaries_, you can buy me a drink, you can pretend this never happened. I'm fine with any of them." She grins. "But I'd like to know _now_ so there's no confusion when we walk out that door."

Karl pauses. He stalls by heading to the sinks and washing his hands, taking a look at his reflection to see what he's left with. He _does_ look like he's had a dozen canaries. And his neck's purple and red besides. He looks at Miranda. She looks flushed, all too pleased with herself. But if she's wearing bruises, they're not showing.

"Think I'll buy you that drink," he offers. "And what about you? Going to pretend this never happened?"

"Hardly. Let me know if you want it all over again. Maybe the alley next time." She winks as they head out of the loo, nearly knocking into someone on their way out. The man glances up at Karl and gives him a leer, and Karl rolls his eyes, following Miranda out to the bar.

_-end-_


End file.
